


I See Myself Reflect On You

by stut_ter



Category: Glee
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-21
Updated: 2013-06-21
Packaged: 2017-12-15 16:05:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,570
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/851436
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stut_ter/pseuds/stut_ter
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What if, instead of living forever, The Fates are born new every millennium? And what if the human that is destined to be a Fate makes a drastic change and creates someone from nothing?  How much need is enough to keep them forever?</p>
            </blockquote>





	I See Myself Reflect On You

**Author's Note:**

> **Trigger Warning: A scene in this is very similar to self harm/suicidal ideation (although it is not presented as such).**
> 
>  
> 
> I never used to beta, and even now I am overwhelmed by having to wait for someone's feedback when I write something, so a forced beta is awesome for me. In this case I was blessed to have MANY eyes look over this piece. Axe and Jude were my "official" betas, who read and commented and cheered and were lovely along the way. Riah was my unofficial, "HEY, I HAVE THIS THING COME READ IT AND SEE IF YOU LIKEY"...and she was lovely. Last but certainly not least was Playlist, whose art and ideas were the basis for this piece. She said she modeled the art after the meta on Kurt and Death that lettersfromtitan has been writing about for awhile. I went from there with the story and I am happy with it. I wish it were longer but it really says all I wanted to say - vignettes that explain Blaine in a way that makes me feel more resolved with all seasons. Thank you so much, ladies, for always being AWESOME! Shout out to Stephen King and his amazing auras in the novel Insomnia. They have always amazed me... Now on with the fic...

[](http://tinypic.com?ref=333kdq9)

**The Lima Bean, November 2010**

“I really wish we still got to go to the park.”

The two other beings at the table turn and give her an almost identical look, one that says, _Really, Clo? Again?_ With her pink hair and the earring in her eyebrow she could be a rebellious teenager. Could be.

She ignores it and goes on.

“I mean, at least _there_ we could be more ourselves and be outside. I _hate_ coffeeshops.”

The older being, the one whose ears hang low and hair flows pure and silvery-white, sighs heavily and chooses to respond.

“Well I like it,” she says, smile stretching well-worn skin. “And I _love_ the food.”

Clo grimaces and eyes the cooling coffee in front of her.

“Of course you do, you’re a thousand years old! Honestly, Tropos, every time we go out it’s like a circus for you.”

Tropos smiles a wicked little grin, gearing up to get her companion’s goat. “Which is what, exactly, again?”

Clo opens her mouth to take the bait but is shushed by the man between them.

“I know it’s like a game, you two, but he’ll be here any minute and we really have no time to waste.”

Clo leans back and smiles at Tropos, who grins back and bites eagerly into her cinnamon bun, their tiff forgotten, and they wait.

The Lima Bean bustles around them, patrons coming and going, aware of their presence but not quite able to focus on the _who_ or _what_ of the Moirai in their midst. As always, the humans’ eyes slide past, focusing on their earthly responsibilities and the ever present thrum of time marching them forward. The Moirai watch in interest, sometimes commenting to one another on a person or two that catch their eye - _”Aww, so soon,”_ from Atropos or a hum of satisfaction from Clotho at a newborn baby in a bassinette - and sometimes just breathing in the clickity-click of the humans striding in and out of time to the internal clock of their lives.

“You say Natos has been watching him?”

Tropos sighs again, the question one she’s answered countless times before.

“Yes. Always watching him. Sometimes too closely, honestly, and he needs to back off. Kurt is aware his presence, surely, especially since Kurt’s to take my place. Death follows us all, but not so closely as Kurt Hummel, and it’s getting tedious to say the least. Natos says Kurt’s fine, but you know how effective _he_ can be when it comes to empathy.”

At this Clotho and Lachesis turn and pause. They love their sister dearly - even Clo, with her paltry hundred fifty years - and the time of goodbye hits them too hard; too close.

“Here he comes,” Tropos says, distracting them, and it’s true. The door is opening and in walks Kurt Hummel, McKinley High junior extraordinaire.

***

Kurt rushes into the Lima Bean with barely enough time to get a coffee and get to class, but he can’t really find the energy to care.

It’s been the week from hell; Karofsky has been inexplicably on his case more and more, no matter how hard Kurt tries to avoid inadvertently insulting the boy. He’s tried dressing down - just a little bit, thank you very much - new routes to his classes, and even spending his lunch times in the library to avoid him but it doesn't seem to matter.

And, more than that, it doesn't seem to matter to anyone else.

His friends haven’t seemed to notice he’s not there. That even when he _is_ there, he isn't. That his mind is on how to ward off the attacks of another human being and how to best cover bruises so his dad can just be in love and be healthy. His teachers don’t really notice, either, and Mr. Shue even makes it _worse_ , pairing them up for duets when his teacher knows no one will pick him. And yeah, he had noticed yesterday when Kurt was barely holding himself together after Karofsky had slammed him against the locker yet again, and he had taken Kurt to his office. But for what? Kurt to tell him, once again, how lame their assignments are and to barely be taken seriously? For yet another person to ignore the way his days _always_ suck? To ignore the way he never - not quite - feels like he belongs in the human race?

Today, though, Kurt Hummel’s head is held high. He’s late because he had been up until the small hours of the morning creating idea boards for the boys, and they are _glorious_ , full of ideas and themes and colors that the boys will appreciate and applaud. Mr. Shue had told him the boys would sing songs by female artists and finally, _finally_ Kurt has a leg up and today is going to be _his_ day.

“Grande nonfat mocha, please.”

He pays for his order and leaves, hopes high and heart hanging on by a thread.

***

“See? He’s fine. Just like last time. And the time before that. And the time before that-”

“We get it, Clo.”

And then they’re gone, the other people in the shop slowly closing in around their table, glad for an open seat.

 

**Lima, OH, November 2010**

It's waning, the ache in his chest at the sight of her pictures, the acute pain of knowing she's no longer here – never going to be here again. Waning, but not gone and when he stops and feels it, lets himself notice the ache again, the pain is just as deep; the sudden bouts of tears flowing just as freely.

It's been eight years and he can still remember her smell; still recall the soft lilt of her voice as she sang him to sleep. Eight years since his mother had died and he had to learn to face the world without her. He had spoken with the wind the night of her funeral, asking it why and how this could happen to him; promising strength and obedience if he could just help his father through. The first needle-point into the fine lines of his fingerprints; the first, he eventually realized, of so many despairs he will shoulder for other people. Always for others.

And so, the world had answered; given him so much control in times of need, when others’ suffering could be mended and breathed new by Kurt’s touch, his words.

This night, however, is different. Kurt is alone, sitting in the middle of his room, pulling at fabric swatches and cutouts from magazines, tears flowing freely.

Tears for himself.

He's muttering all the while, his voice high and waivery, carrying clear through his open basement window, trailing lightly over the grass before sinking soundly into the earth.

“I just-”

He keeps pulling at pieces, ignoring the pins so perfectly placed the night before, and they jab and tear, opening winking points of crimson.

He keeps going, ruining paper and thread with blood and tears, not caring one bit. He knows it's indulgent, this little fit, but he can't remember a time when he felt this alone; this unheeded by the world.

“I just don't know how to live in this...in this world, mom,” he chokes out, angrily stashing every ruined thing in the trash.

“I just- need someone who understands me. Who sees _me_ and just loves me for who I am. That I'm...enough for. Is that too much to ask? Just one person?” He falters, angling down to the floor in a heap, shoulders sagging and tears disappearing into the carpet. “Because I just...I can't-”

If he could see it, he would know his thoughts betray him, tattooed like morse code in his aura. His normal pink-purple calm a bright thundery blue, threaded through with violent black lightning. It’s in the very air around him, in the blood he's left stained into well-meaning threads. The world sees and the world knows what he feels - he's telling himself tomorrow is one last try and that's it...before he tries to die instead.

And somewhere close a heart beats, created in need and unaware of its purpose.

***

The noise is sharp, sticking his subconscious with little darts of waking, and he wants it to stop. Which, well, would be grand but..he can’t seem to move his limbs, really, not when they feel like so much driftwood. It’s like he’s been sleeping forever and his body doesn’t quite remember how to function.

He finally blinks his eyes open to the murky light. There’s no movement in the house; no dog or cat, no parents or brother. The former not allowed and the latter all about their own business for the last few months. At the moment he can’t think of the last time he saw his mother, but he knows she’s been around from her notes and her perfume interlaced with everything downstairs.

For now, though, his focus is starting his daily routine. Get up, tend to his personal hygiene in the bathroom, and then move along to pulling out his everyday clothes. Luckily for him, he doesn’t have to agonize over what he will wear, whether his parents will approve, or if the neighbors will notice if he’s not all pulled together - he has a uniform for Dalton Academy. He will arrive at precisely 8:05am.

Like always.

***

He’s had his great-grandfather’s pocket watch since his 13th birthday - a symbol, his father had said, of becoming a man. The watch itself isn’t out of the ordinary, but the silver in both the case and the chain are real, as well as the diamonds at twelve, three, six, and nine. He had gloated a bit that the watch had been for him - much to Cooper’s objections - and him alone.

Today he can’t stop checking the time. Almost...almost as if he’s waiting on something, and when he reaches the bottom of the stairs, that moment comes.

“Excuse me?”

Blaine turns and looks up into gloriously blue eyes that...that, judging by the attire, obviously don’t belong here. The interloper continues speaking before Blaine can say a word.

“Um, hi. Can I ask you a question? I’m new here.”

Blaine takes a moment, his brain and body at war; the former intent on getting to the Warbler performance and the latter’s abrupt _focus_ on this boy. He takes a breath and continues as though he’s had no errant thoughts, _as a Dalton boy should_.

“My name’s Blaine.”

The boy smiles and Blaine’s skin tingles.

“Kurt.” He looks down at Blaine, seemingly lost for words and then-

“So what exactly is going on?”

“The Warblers!” Blaine blurts, his mind’s focus zipping back to the surface, “Every now and then they throw an impromptu performance in the senior commons...tends to shut the school down for awhile.”

He looks back to Kurt who’s just staring, mouth agape.

“So, wait...Glee club here is kind of cool?”

Blaine can’t help but swell at the offhanded show of support.

“The Warblers are like...rock stars.”

He should know, he is one.

Blaine watches as Kurt’s face grows ever more curious and then, well, he just grabs Kurt’s hand and leads him away.

***

Later, in the privacy of his own bedroom, Kurt can’t stop staring at his hand.

The boy - Blaine - had held onto it because he _wanted_ to. He had even initiated the contact and yeah, Kurt had felt flustered and embarrassed to ask if _all_ the boys at Dalton were gay but he had gotten his answer about Blaine nonetheless.

 _Blaine Anderson_.

His name gives Kurt little goosebumps over his skin and makes his heart swoop low in his chest and, _wow_ , _this_ is infatuation at first sight he thinks, because there is no way he ever felt like this about Finn so soon. With Finn he had felt wrong; dirty and just a little bit like his whole self was fundamentally skewed. Because...because what a cruel joke the world plays when you can be attracted so deeply to someone who would never even consider loving you back.

But, he’s realized since, this can happen to all people.

He shakes himself and stops staring at this hand, mindful of the fact he undoubtedly looks like a crazy person standing in the middle of his room staring at a body part he’s possessed his whole life. Instead he begins the meticulous routine of changing his clothes  
.  
He unbuttons and hangs his black overcoat, gently smoothing any imagined creases away before carefully tugging his tie off. He regards it a moment and then decides to iron it before putting it back on the rack. He crosses the room to plug in the iron sitting on his ironing board - he never puts it up; it’s just a part of his room like his vanity and his Wicked poster - part of who he is.

He walks to his bedside, undoing his button-up in short, clipped movements, letting the shirt hang open as he hits play on his iPod. He smiles and walks back to his closet, [the first strands of music](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=KOwzGylGWr8) trailing out to lift his spirits even further. He slips out of his shirt and hangs it primly on a white hanger - to denote dry cleaning - and gives his pants the same treatment, allowing them to share the space.

The chorus wells up as he reaches his ironing board, and he can’t help but sing along, his hips keeping time as he deftly irons his tie.

_So let’s bring on the men_  
and let the fun begin  
a little touch of sin  
why wait another minute 

He stops singing and hums along as he unplugs the iron and moves back to the closet, this time to hang up the tie and pull his socks and undershirt off. After tossing the undergarments into his hamper, he crosses the room to find his reflection in the mirror, wearing only a critical expression and his underwear.

The yoga is helping, it seems, or else the baby fat is actually being stolen away in the growth spurts he’s _finally_ having, because he doesn’t cringe when he looks in the mirror. Not today. Today he sees his arms and legs longer than ever, his stomach, though still soft, flatter than he had ever seen it. He’s not obsessed with his health - on the contrary, he still loves his cheesecake and pizza. It’s just the balance of how much to eat that will help him fit into vintage and ebay designer clothes. And the yoga helps.

As he’s looking, his thoughts sneak up and wrangle Blaine to the forefront of his mind. He has a brief moment - just one - of _what if-? what would Blaine think of me-_ before he’s shaking his head and heading to get dressed to do the aforementioned yoga.

_Honestly, Kurt._

 

**The Lima Bean, November 2010**

This time there are no jokes.

Clo can’t stop fidgeting and all three are thankful for Tropos’ predisposition to indulge in chocolate hazelnut biscotti so that, if anyone actually notices them, they would have at least some pretense of being here for _coffee_.

Esis is downright inconsolable, twitching in his seat while they wait. Nothing feels right and there’s nothing he can do but wait for Kurt to come and then-

When Tropos sees him she gasps. Clo grasps her hand to quiet her as Kurt turns to eye their table, clearly seeing them. Her hair’s not pink and Tropos is no longer a woman but Kurt _sees_ them, if only for a moment, and his aura blurs and slides with spikes of umber - a question there - but his focus is pulled back...to the anomaly.

The three take him in, the slender, short boy beside Kurt, and none of them speak as they move, Kurt’s aura enveloping them both, no string winding and curling from him as even Kurt’s is, despite its short length.

His existence is, as only they can see, moving and thriving in Kurt’s own. He does not have a string or aura - no evidence of the three of them - like every other human being born.

He is a construct of Kurt, as Natos had reported. They haven’t the time to wait, to investigate further before they are needed elsewhere, but they see. And now they must learn.

***

Kurt turns to the table, intent on finding out more about the people there, but it’s empty. He frowns but moves on, thankful for a seat in the crowded beanery.

“Look, one just for you and me,” he says, smiling at Blaine just a little too brightly, his heart hoping a little too loud.

_You and Me._

 

**Lima, OH, May 2011**

“They really are beautiful, though, no matter how unprecedented they are.” Clo says, beaming.

All human lives start in her spinning, and so something as unique as Blaine-and-Kurt intrigues her. She can’t help it.

Esis clicks his tongue but nods, watching intently as the two boys converse at the table. Kurt is obviously excited about something, his aura swirling thick around the table as he talks. None of the three fates can pull their eyes away from Kurt’s string, though. So carefully spun and measured by two of them, preparing his life for one much different than an ordinary human.

Every other human in the room has one, that much is obvious from the threads laying calm and useless at the back of each person there. Some are longer than others, curling in on themselves as if suspended in that person’s aura - but they all have one.

And then there’s Blaine.

Blaine sits, unknowing, as Kurt’s aura stretches and covers them both, Kurt’s excitement threading sky-blue through the surface as Blaine spouts ribbons of bright yellow through the segment pulsing over his skin.

 _Nerves, he’s scared about something._ Clo thinks.

They watch as Kurt’s string flutters and sways, moving through his aura as if it has no end, which they all know exists and will come to fruition sooner rather than later but...it hovers over Blaine’s wrists, first one then the other, leaving pools of _Kurt_ where it touches down before moving onto his neck - pulse points - feeding Blaine’s existence without Kurt knowing.

Any other human would be exhausted by now, supporting both lives, but Kurt just glows stronger, more vibrant than ever.

They would know; they’ve been watching since his birth.

***

Kurt really thinks before responding.

“Well - it was still amazing. I flew in a plane for the first time in my life. I had breakfast at Tiffany’s. I sang on a Broadway stage-”

Blaine just looks at him, his soft eyes scrunched and Kurt could _die_ when Blaine looks at him like that.

“I love you.”

***  
They all see it, the moment it’s said.

Kurt’s aura is blinding, a tight, glossy sheen of swirling purples, pinks, and blues like a protective shield around them both.

Clo just drinks them in, her breath caught in her throat and her hand gripping Esis’, eyes wide.

“Look, just _look_ ”, Tropos whispers, awe and wonder thickening her ancient voice. “They’re so beautiful, oh my god what are we going t-”

She breaks off, silenced by Kurt’s life string splitting 14 ways, fusing itself to Blaine’s pulse points and holding, sliding over his body.

Making them both stronger.

 

**Lima, OH, November 2012**

He had been wrong to try to convince Kurt that night. He had known moment he had woken, smelling of alcohol and Scandals.

So wrong because this, _this_ is how it should be.

No one drunk. No one jealous about another boy. Just the two of them choosing together to be...more.

They’re naked, Kurt beside him, and Blaine had thought he would shake himself apart with nerves being bare skin to bare skin with Kurt. Had worried about judgement and expectations, but here and now is not _what if_ or _when_ and in this moment all he can feel is Kurt’s fingertips on the nape of his neck; thumbing the soft, sweet dip where his thigh meets his hip. The white-hot burn of the head of Kurt's cock against his own as they are touching, exploring, at least in this moment.

“Thank you,” Blaine whispers, his fingers clinging tightly to the curve of Kurt’s ass as he keeps his hips still, barely holding back as he holds Kurt’s gaze. Kurt’s mouth is two breaths away, his lips red-ripe and love-worn when he speaks.

“Thank _you_ , Kurt says, all smile-spread lips and eyes mischief incarnate. “You are _perfect_... _this_ is perfect.”

Blaine growls a laugh and rocks his hips, drawing them together.

Kurt groans and holds tight, whispering Blaine’s name and Blaine feels...

_complete._

 

**Lima, OH, April 2012**

“It’s _cheating_ Kurt.”

The words bounce around Kurt’s brain as he tries to get to sleep that night.

 _It isn’t cheating_ he tells himself and _Blaine did this_ exact _thing with stupid Sebastian_. Over and over, the words tumble, not making him feel any better at all.

It’s been three hours since Blaine left, his cheeks still wet and his eyes red-rimmed. Kurt keeps thinking back to his own reaction: stoically sitting on the edge of the bed, his arms crossed defensively, listening to Blaine explain how he feels. Like Kurt’s _bored_ with him, and like there’s not _communication_ anymore and-

He hits his pillow and sighs. He never thought he’d want the kind of attention Chandler’s been giving - suggestive little remarks that are _so_ not Blaine’s style, barely hidden in cheesy pick-up lines. He _likes_ feeling pursued, something Blaine never really had to do because Kurt had, quite literally, laid himself out for Blaine to accept or refuse.

It’s nice to know _he_ is someone’s first choice for once.

 _It isn’t cheating_ , he tells himself again. _It’s just building his self-esteem. Harmless fun._

***

The churning in his stomach reminds him of the cruise they took when Cooper turned eighteen. They had gone to Bermuda and there had been a storm. His mother had spoken softly in his ear and trailed her fingers through his hair as the boat rocked, and Coop had laughed in the doorway of the cabin, telling him not to ruin mom’s dress with his tender stomach.

He’s in his own room now, the blinds tightly closed, the house a silent, strange museum where nothing but Blaine breathes or moves.

His parents haven’t been home in three weeks. It’s been awhile since they’ve been gone so long, and he always finds it strange that whenever he needs them the _most_ it’s like they’re the busiest.

His hiccupy cries have died down, but his body’s still shaking, Kurt’s body language and his offended tone still fresh in Blaine’s mind, and he pulls his knees into his chest, his shoes still on and his coat barely shrugged off in the doorway to his room. It can stay there, no one will notice.

Kurt really doesn’t get it. He doesn’t get why Blaine feels torn in two and why he keeps pulling further and further away the closer June comes. How, many days, Blaine feels like a hollow doll, pulled and dancing to the beat of Kurt’s drum and listing, more and more, as Kurt’s sails are filled with the winds of change.

Worst of all, Blaine really just doesn’t know what he did wrong.

When Kurt had been threatened, he had been there for him. Quite literally, as the surgery he had undergone is still fresh and new.

When Karofsky had made his sad choices, Blaine had supported Kurt through his guilt and urged him to visit Dave in the hospital even though, quite frankly, the guy still made Blaine nervous.

When Kurt had needed someone to talk to about NYADA and a listening ear for his audition, Blaine had proudly sat through song after song before witnessing his amazing boyfriend pull out all the stops and don the best gold pants in all of Ohio.

But Kurt is right. Blaine HAS been pulling back, terrified of next year and losing Kurt, terrified of not being enough for him anymore, feeling as though his whole life depends on Kurt’s happiness - and it has drained him. Made him unable to give anything else because, in all honesty, Blaine has started to feel invisible. Like what he does and who he is no longer matters and he can’t do it anymore, not like this and now-

Now Kurt has really started to move on and he doesn’t even see what’s happening. He doesn’t feel how cold Blaine’s heart feels and he doesn’t notice how they don’t even touch in private anymore.

And Blaine, for all that he is, cannot come up with one way to make it better. So he cries and holds himself tighter, since there’s no one around to do it for him.

 

**Lima, OH, August 2012**

“No, Brittany, I don’t think fire would be a good idea this year. You saw how well that worked las-”

Blaine listens, his fingers flying over the keys of his laptop as Brittany continues talking about Lord Tubbington and his recent ability to see deep into space to predict the future.

He cocks his head, reading over the email he’s writing and stops short, picking up on Brittany’s conversation again.

“I’m not leaving soon, your cat is wrong about that.” Goodness knows his dad was just talking about buying an apartment to rent out near the college and the pros and cons of renting to college seniors just this morning at the breakfast table. They aren’t leaving Lima anytime soon.

Brittany keeps talking and Blaine hits send on the email to the band members, hoping they’re all in for the practice run tomorrow at noon. It’s a Saturday and Kurt has to work - there’s no way he’ll be anywhere near the school steps to see them working on a song for _him_ , and Blaine’s surprising him with dinner out that night at The Cheesecake Factory. They have to drive to Columbus to go, but both his parents and Burt had given permission and Kurt is off on Sundays so...

“Brittany, I have to go now but I’ll see you on the steps tomorrow at noon, okay?”

He listens and moment and hangs up, mentally making a list of the things in his bag.

_Jump ropes, Dixie cups, sheet music..._

He has epic things in mind for Kurt for both tomorrow night and Monday. He should feel excited; happy and proud and just a tad bit anxious.

Instead he feels devastated, knowing Kurt will take his advice and move along to New York where his dreams lie. Move on to a life without Blaine.

It’s a battle in his heart that he can’t ever seem to win - the absolute driving _need_ to make Kurt happy warring with his desire to keep Kurt as close to himself as possible. He could tear himself in two with it.

He’s shaking again, like so many times lately when he thinks of Kurt leaving, and he talks himself away from the ledge yet again with the memory of Kurt’s words of _forever_ and _just like The Notebook_.

Blaine wishes he could believe and hopes he’s wrong about everything. That it will be unlike what he fears.

 

**McKinley High, Lima, OH, September 2012**

He looks at the paper Brittany has signed for a good minute before he adds his name to it as well. He’s already signed up for so many clubs he’s lost count, but his afternoons are free and his parents insist that he not work so...

Even though it may mean a fight. With Brittany. But Blaine has to do _something_ , especially with Kurt looking for jobs because if he doesn’t he might lose his mind.

And so it begins, rushing around to coordinate outfits with Sam, trading barbs with Brittany and trying - mostly unsuccessfully - to get in contact with Kurt, if only to hear his voice and know he’s not utterly alone. Because Sam, although wonderful, is...Sam.

And Blaine just _really_ needs to know that he’s not alone in whatever he and Kurt currently are.

***

“He’s coming with Sam Evans.”

Clo stirs her iced mocha latte with a little bamboo stick and slurps the whipped cream off the top while Tropos watches, bemused.

“First time in public?” she asks, graying eyebrow raised and tea perched beside half-eaten biscotti. “And aren’t you the one who _hates_ coffee shops, hmm?”

Clo blushes as Lachesis smiles between the two and fidgets with his fingers.

“Okay, so they aren’t _that_ bad. I’ve matured.” She returns to her drink, happily sucking on the straw and humming to herself.

Tropos laughs.

“Two years. It’s been two years and she’s ‘matured’, Esis. Your hands are going to be full with two young ones soon.”

She picks up her tea.

***

Sam walks in ahead of Blaine, mouth going mile a minute as Blaine hurries to grab the door before it hits him in the face.

“And I’m pretty sure if we’re presidents, dude, we get special parking spots and like, free coffee from the cafeteria, which I don’t really want because they always burn it but dude, you aren’t that picky, right, and I was thinking-”

Blaine smiles a bit and looks around wistfully, pulling his phone from his pocket to check for any missed calls.

None. For more than 28 hours...at least, not from the one person he wants to hear from.

He’s never waited so long for a callback. He sighs and joins Sam at the counter.

***

“See?” Clotho says, finishing her latte. “He’s fading quickly now. No problem at all.”

The three look to where the anomaly is latched onto the other boy’s aura - bright orange beaded with silver - and where it wisps lazily around Blaine’s ankles, turning to mist and settling low on the floor after it refuses to take hold. Sam’s aura is not meant for Blaine and so it shimmers there for mere moments before slipping away.

Blaine himself is less solid than they have ever seen him, if only to their eyes. His cheeks are hollowed to them, his skin a sickly white. He is a shadow of himself, of the person he was when Kurt had been there.

“Soon,” Esis says, and they are gone.

 

**Lima, OH, October 2012**

Blaine’s hands are bloody.

He had gone down to the basement and just started hitting his bag, his vision blurred, making inhuman sounds as he punched over and over again.

He knows the rules of the house and he knows he’s broken them, especially since the rules had been made right after Sadie Hawkins.

_”I don’t care how upset you are, son, you always wrap your hands. No anger or bully is worth hurting yourself over.”_

But his dad’s not here now; hasn't been since the beginning of September and Blaine wonders if he misses them in the night or if they truly don’t worry about him like they say they do. It’s like...

Like they don’t exist.

He had come home straight from Eli’s bed and showered Eli’s hands off of his body, his mouth, tongue and teeth off of his skin. He had spent forty-five minutes in the shower scrubbing and staring at the wall and wondering how he was going to say what he needed to say and how he could have done something so _not Blaine_ , like he doesn’t even know who ‘Blaine’ is anymore.

For weeks it had been building, this ‘other’ Blaine, the one who didn’t do his homework and who carelessly made his bed, barely covering the wrinkled sheets.

The Blaine who listened when Sam told him to stop wearing bow ties even though he feels so _unsafe_ without them on.

_Dalton tie, bow tie, necktie, any tie.._

Without them he’s free-floating and empty, like so much smoke. He had tried to explain it to Kurt, who had ignored it and missed it

_(like everything else)_

and kept talking like Blaine wasn't’ there

_(like everyone else)_

and Blaine’s heart had fractured more and more and then

_(catastrophic failure)_

today had happened.

He had told himself he was going for a new friend, told himself he was just doing what Kurt was doing with other people in New York and then-

 _Eli inside him, pushing, pushing, making him feel_ real-

His hands are bloody and the bag is bloody and he’ll probably need stitches and no one is home so-

Blaine stops and looks at the bag,

the floor,

his hands,

his shoes.

It’s like he’s killed something - and he knows he has.

He goes to clean up, intent on booking a flight.

 

**Bushwick, NY, October 2012**

“Why does this hurt more than anything, ever?”

He has his head in Rachel’s lap, he had given in when Blaine had rolled the door shut, unwilling to talk to Kurt more about what he had done other than to reiterate what he had already said the night before. Rachel slips her fingers through his hair, her fingernails so different than Blaine’s blunt fingertips.

He can feel her shrug.

“I don’t know.” Her voice is watery, too. Finn is gone, Blaine is gone. Nothing in the apartment feels right and it’s like even his skin is too small.

He buries his head in her lap, unable to feel embarrassed or remorseful because the world is in a shambles and if you can’t put your head in your best girlfriend’s lap when things have reached defcon one then when _can_ you?

“I don’t know, Kurt.”

 

**Lima, OH, October 2012**

“Nightbird is handling the missing trophy.”

They all look at him in surprise. Blaine can feel it; like they forget he’s there until he _makes_ them see. He had made the costume almost as a last ditch effort, and at Sam’s urging. It’s like Sam’s the only person who can see him lately and he can barely tolerate anything anymore.

No Glee club. Not home, where his mom and dad had finally resurfaced, and certainly not in his inbox anywhere where there is still silence from New York.

Some mornings he even needs to remind himself to get up, what his schedule is, and why he’s still moving.

So he sits in Glee and in class as Nightbird, because at least then people can see him. At least then he has his cape to protect him from fading away, which he is.

Blaine Anderson is ceasing to exist.

 

**Bushwick, NY, November 2012**

“I really don’t want to do this Rachel,” Kurt says, cleaning out his coffee cup and reaching for his keys. “We don’t have the money and it’s stupid.”

Rachel bustles in, taking her travel mug from Kurt’s hands and click-clacking for the door, Kurt hot on her heels.

“We need to go, Cassandra made it possible and although she IS the wicked witch of the west I need you there to help with closure, Kurt. I can’t face Finn alone!”

They’re on the street now, heading for the train and Kurt just stops, looking at Rachel like she’s grown extra limbs.

“And I won’t, Rach?”

His heart is in his throat a bit, because yes, he’s used to Rachel’s self-centered nature, but _honestly_.

She stops, too, but just enough to pull Kurt along, tsk tsking him.

“I know it’s hard to visit home after being away, Kurt, but I’m sorry...that’s just not the same as breaking up with someone and then going back to where you know they’ll be.”

She rolls her eyes at him as she slides her metro card and he could slap her, honestly.

“Rachel!” he seethes, the word sliding out between his teeth like broken glass. “It will be just the same for me, thank you very much, as Blaine has a _role_ in the goddamn musical.”

He’s fuming while they stand on the platform, subway patrons milling around them, the scent of coffee and urgency in their wake.

Rachel eyes him strangely for a moment and feels his head. Kurt slaps at her hand, anger coursing through his fingertips and making them shake minutely.

“Kurt, honey,” she says, like speaking to a child. “Who’s Blaine?”

The express whips past, almost blowing her skirt up, and Rachel misses Kurt’s face, confusion and shock twining through his skin.

_What?_

***

Later, alone in his bed, Kurt goes over everything he knows of Blaine. It hurts so _hard_ , thinking about his laugh, his face, his mind, and who he is and how they had been but-

There’s always something so off that Kurt had never really noticed.

Blaine, alone in his house so much.

Blaine, referencing relatives that Kurt has never seen.

Cooper, who took more than a year to show up.

Even the teachers at Dalton, when he comes to think of it, barely seemed to exist except when he and Blaine had been in classes.

As Kurt reflects on their time together, his skin seems to grow tighter and tighter, and he can’t control his fingertips and make them stop tap-tap-tapping at the edge of his nightstand.

When Rachel had continued to deny Blaine’s existence on the train he had pulled up a picture of the two of them together - Rachel and Blaine, singing next to the pool at Sugar’s house over the summer. She had shaken her head a few times and laughed, telling him “Of course I _know_ Blaine, Kurt, why do you look so shaken up?”

He had wanted to break down in tears right there but the presence of work and adult demands loomed in his mind and he tried to just breathe.

It’s not any better here in his bed, where Blaine has been, and where things seem like such an enigma.

The clock ticks in the kitchen and he can hear it. Hear the bones of his building settling into its foundation for the night, and Rachel murmuring in her sleep. Water runs down the pipes in the unit next door and someone outside is laughing while walking on the sidewalk.

Everything in his world seems suddenly multiplied, all the minutiae laid out for Kurt like he can see it, touch, it, feel the direction the earth will go before it even moves. It’s an enormity that overwhelms and astounds him; it holds him fast and still in his bed until there’s a creeping through his toes and into his legs, up his spine and into his cerebral cortex that fills him with the need to go to Lima.

After some time his heart slows down and his brain tells him to sleep, to ignore the man behind the curtain for just this moment and rest.

But he will go to Lima with Rachel.

And he will get his answers.

 

**Lima, OH, November 2012**

The play is wonderful, as Kurt would have expected, but seeing Blaine is so much harder than he thought it would be.

He watches Blaine perform and sees how little of the Blaine he loves is actually _there_. Yes, Blaine the showman is there, but his eyes just about break Kurt’s heart until Kurt remembers that _he’s_ the one that got hurt, that _he’s_ the one who had had his heart broken.

Watching Blaine, though, he remembers what the last few months had been like.

How he had ignored Blaine’s calls, had forgotten their 18-month anniversary, and hadn’t been bothered to be excited when Blaine had called to tell Kurt of his presidential win. He had rationalized, at the time, that he had more adult things to worry about than _senior class president_. Things like getting a real job and having a place to live.

No matter what, though, he can’t deny that he had not been there for Blaine when Blaine had needed him. Time and again Blaine had saved him - literally, in the case of the slushie - and Kurt had been too caught up in his own drama to see he was losing Blaine.

But still.

Blaine had cheated. He had _cheated_ instead of talking to Kurt. Done something that he himself had accused Kurt of and there hadn’t been any touching or...k-kissing or...

By the end of the show Kurt is seething again, wondering for the hundredth time who the man on stage was and where his boyfriend had gone.

He’s made up his mind to try and turn the other cheek and just...deal with Blaine if he has to see him but then...then Blaine is actually there, in front of him, and his whole body tightens up in hurt and shame and, worst of all, _want_. A want so deep Kurt can hardly breathe. He _wants_ to ignore what’s happened and he _wants_ to fall into Blaine’s arms and cry and talk about how much he’s hurt.

And in the end he says things that hurt Blaine instead. He sees his words break Blaine’s heart, and then runs away, something he never wanted to do again.

***

It’s Rachel who suggests the Lima Bean, not Kurt, but he goes with her to commiserate over coffees that he plans to surreptitiously check for vermin before drinking.

They both have cars so he follows her and they park adjacent to each other, both taking a moment to wipe tears before putting on brave faces to go into a public place. Kurt meets Rachel by her car and offers his arm, which she takes with a watery smile.

They are here, of course, for each other.

She’s chatting to him, talking about Brody and -ew- her dance teacher, when he pushes open the door for both of them and promptly stops still.

Rachel hardly notices and keeps moving, gesticulating wildly and moving for the counter but Kurt-

Kurt is a bit transfixed.

It’s not like he’s never seen them before. The same young - middle aged - old trio. Not the same people every time, but always in the same place and always the same.... _feel_ to them.

This time, though, they are emitting an almost glow that rolls out and over the table their sitting at, the eldest the brightest and boldest of them all. They’re all watching him, not so much with welcome, but with resignation.

“You should go with your friend, for now,” says the old one, quietly enough, but sounding to Kurt like it’s whispering directly in his ear. “She won’t see us - not really, as none of them _really_ do. But you.”

The old one smiles, and Kurt can’t tell if what it is is man or woman, but he does know that he feels an instant understanding with it. Like it’s a part of who he is at his core.

He finds the wherewithal to nod and follow Rachel, willing himself to look forward and at the menu, as if otherworldly-looking beings weren’t sitting not ten feet from him.

Time passes and he talks with Rachel, somehow holding his own in a conversation that he really just wants to be over.

“I think I’m just gonna go home, Kurt. I’m tired and I just want to be in my bed.” Rachel stands and tosses her cup into the garbage before turning to him and motioning to the outside. “Want to walk a lady to her car?”

Kurt looks around and wets his lips, watching the table that’s watching him back, and comes up with a plan.

“You go ahead, Rach. I’m going to buy Dad and Carole a dozen scones because they’ve been so good about all this.” He rushes on, knowing full well the dozen scones are also for Finn’s sake. “You go ahead, though, the line is too long for you to wait.

She glances toward the register and grimaces, seeing what no doubt are Lima U students caffeining up for midterms.

“Yeah, okay. Love you, Kurt.”

He hugs her, quick but tight, and she’s gone. He watches her go and moves toward the line as she waves from the car and he waits until she’s pulling out of the driveway before he changes course and heads for the table.

***

“Alright everyone,” he begins as soon as he gets to the table and takes a seat. “I’m not one for surprises unless they are of the fashion variety and although you all look amazing today-” They all smile at him because, well, it’s true. “-I’m feeling a bit uncomfortable about seeing things that other people don’t seem to be privy to, so spill.”

He sits back in his chair and crosses his arms, looking every ounce as confident as he doesn’t feel.

They all share a glance and then the young one speaks.

“So sassy,” she teases, her eyes shining. ‘I can’t wait to spend every day with you, Kurt Hummel.”

Kurt take a quick breath that he hopes they can’t see and watches as they all smile.

_Shit._

The old one reaches across the table to put her hands on Kurt’s, but Kurt withdraws.

“I’m not really the type to just...” he trails off, feeling more flustered than he ever intended. “Explain.”

The middle one chuckles and shakes his head.

“I am Lachesis. This one on my left is Clotho, and Ms. Ancient here is Atropos. Have you heard these names before, Kurt?”

Kurt begins to shake his head but then something from history class claws itself free from the back of his mind and he stops.

“Fates?”

They all smile, then, and he just-

This _can’t_ be happening.

“I can see your doubt, Kurt,” Lachesis says, the smile never faltering, “It’s all over your aura - it looks like little fireworks of purple in there. Close your eyes, breathe, and then open them and see.”

Kurt’s hands are shaking a bit when he decides to play along, close his eyes and open them again. And when he does-

“Oh my god,” he whispers, the words steeped in disbelief. He would stand if it wouldn’t draw attention, and as it is he can barely contain the giggles that threaten to overcome him.

Everyone is so _beautiful_.

The girl by the counter waiting for her cookies-n-cream cafe mocha is outlined in a soft bubblegum pink, her aura twisted up in the girl’s she’s holding hands with, the slate grey a stark contrast as it twists and writhes together. Each girl has a string of aura hanging from her back and they twist and turn as if in the wind.

The boy sitting in the corner with his head bent over his textbook is a deep maroon, flecked with yellow bolts threatening to overtake it.

“Afraid of failing,” Clotho supplies, following his gaze.

He looks at them all and his eyes water, overcome with the reality of... _this_ , and then his eyes fall on a woman and a man two tables over.

Atropos sees and her eyes sadden.

“Yes, Kurt,” she says, her voice low. “Very soon, actually. Tonight.”

The man’s aura is barely there and Kurt can tell that at one time it must have been a brilliant green. Tonight, though, it’s falling low around his heels, flecked with black and sickly grey. The string behind is stiff and ragged and...

“So why do I get to see this?” Kurt asks, wishing he had never seen the man. “Why me?”

Lachesis sighs and looks to Atropos and Kurt holds his breath, feeling the weight of their combined gaze when they all look to him.

“Well Kurt,” Atropos begins, “We are not ageless. You can see that I am the oldest of us all, and once, like you, we met the fates and they showed us the world around us. They showed us the existence of fate and magic and then they told us what I am to tell you.”

Kurt fidgets in his chair, unable to still his fingers as the woman speaks, the air becoming heavier around them until it feels as though they are the only beings in Lima.

“And you, my dear boy, will soon be me. I am old, Kurt, a thousand years old to be exact. And you were born to take my place. You were born to be a fate.”

Kurt watches them all closely, waiting for the other shoe to drop or for one of them to admit the joke.

Something.

When nothing comes, when they just sit and look at him with kind, understanding eyes, he speaks again, barely controlling the volume of his voice.

“I- I can’t believe this, you know.”

His is body a tight string, barely holding onto his sanity as the reality of what they’ve told him sinks in. _No. This isn’t true. I’ve met escaped mental patients or I’m on TV or-_

“You put something in my coffee.”

Clotho laughs and gets up, coming around the table to put her hands on his shoulders. He watches her and doesn’t even try to move. He just...can’t.

She bends down next to him and whispers in his ear.

“Look, Kurt.”

At that she moves her hands to his eyes and he sees.

_His dad, but not really because it’s just what he’s seen of his dad in his grandma’s old photo albums. He’s ten or eleven and he’s working on the motor of a truck with Kurt’s grandpa. He’s-_

The view changes.

 _His mom, barely a teenager in a red-spotted bathing suit, swinging on a rope and letting go, falling into the pond near her mother’s house. She’s laughing until she hits, the sun in her brown hair, freckles spotting her shoulders and so_ beautiful _Kurt hitches a breath-_

_His mom and dad sitting in the back of a Limo, all alone and his dad is cupping his mom’s cheek, telling her how beautiful she looks and-_

_Holding a baby - holding_ him _\- and smiling and then his dad is smoothing her hair while Kurt stares up at them and-_

_Kurt standing next to her coffin, tears dripping onto the satin as his fingers curl around a lock of his mother’s hair, the lock that his dad lets him cut and keep and-_

When Clotho lets go Kurt slumps to the table, his face tear-stained, lungs full with gasps.

“Shh, shh, honey, it’s okay...” Clotho runs her fingers through his hair and it tingles, sending soft spirals of calm through his bones.

“Oh my god,” he breathes, resting his forehead on the table, “Oh...my god.”

“Mmmm, I said more choice words - at least for my generation,” Atropos says, eyes dancing.

“So inappropriate,” Lachesis replies, swatting at her and Kurt looks up, really looking, at the three fates in front of him.

“So. Why tonight? Why now?”

“Why did you come to us, Kurt. You’ve seen us - we know you have, even if you didn’t come to us before - so why tonight? We know you have a question...probably a thousand right about now, actually...but what do you want to know _tonight_?” Atropos is looking _into_ him, he swears, but right now she’s right. She’s so right.

“What is going on with Blaine?” he asks, heart clenching but wanting to know just the same.

Lachesis sighs and stirs his coffee, his eyes never leaving Kurt’s.

“Well, Kurt. You made him, what IS going on with Blaine?” He doesn’t break his gaze, just levels him with a supremely serious look that makes Kurt’s whole body shiver.

“I-” He licks his lips and drums his fingers on the table. “I _made_ him? How so?”

“When did Blaine come into your life, Kurt?” Clotho pushes, inching him along.

He closes his eyes and concentrates, pushes his mind back to the time of Dalton, the moment when he met Blaine, then back...further, the day before, how he had felt, what he had said and-

“Right after...I mean, I was thinking maybe that I should-” He stops, snapping his mouth shut. What had he wanted? Someone to believe in him? Someone that would understand him? Didn’t Blaine fit that bill?

And suddenly he’s nauseous.  He's up, blindly clawing through the undergrads, stumbling for the bathroom to throw up the coffee and scones he had had with Rachel.

After he’s through, face washed and mouth cleaned out, he grips the edge of the sink and stares at the bowl, the corroded faux-silver of the drain, the chipping of the porcelain around the edge, the flecks of soap clinging to the basin.

_No. No no no. Nope._

_Blaine loves me. Blaine is a person, Blaine isn’t a figment of my imagination, Blaine is real._

_Real._

_Real._

He pushes himself from the sink and slams his way out of the bathroom, making students tearing their eyes from their work to glare at the noise, and returns to the table where all three fates are eyeing him with concern.

“Are you okay, Kurt?” Clotho asks, biting her lip.

“No!” He yells, catching grumbles and more glares from studying underclassmen. “I mean,” he continues, lowering his voice, “I am NOT okay. You just told me the love of my life - yes, even now, okay? - the love of my life is a _figment of my imagination_. I am SO not okay!”

His brain won’t stop yelling, screaming that _Of course! Of course the one person who truly loved me is imaginary! OF COURSE!_ but he’s interrupted by Lachesis.

“Oh, no no no! He’s not imaginary, Kurt!”

At that Kurt’s spine bends and sways, and he swears he loses consciousness for a moment as relief floods through him.

“Thank god, because if all of my friends have been playing along with some elaborate fantasy like in Lars and The Real Girl, I would need to be committed.”

They all look at him strangely for a moment before Lachesis clears his throat.

“Now stop jumping to conclusions and listen to the whole thing.”

Kurt nods and puts his elbows on the table, his chin in his hands for something to do.

“Blaine is a construct of your need, yes, but that doesn’t make him any less ‘real’. Your intense need plus your latent Fate abilities somehow created him. And not just him, Kurt, the world around him bent and changed to accommodate, creating whole histories where there were none.”

Kurt just stares, his brain barely able to hold on.

“Now,” Lachesis continues Clotho nodding. “You may have noticed that the people in Blaine’s life are...less than present. This is due to that creation, Kurt. They are barely there in a reality construct, and exist on a very surface level. Blaine doesn’t recognize this...he just takes for granted that they have always been semi-absent, as you did when you realized it. Chalked it up to bad parenting. The constructs that are Blaine’s family are actually very happy to love him, but that’s all they are there for...props, perhaps? Like in a play?”

Kurt nods.

“Anyway, his existence has always been based on your need but that doesn’t mean he can’t make his own decisions. YOU couldn’t control that - just that he was there. Blaine falling in love with you and wanting you to be happy are two different things. Blaine exists to give you someone who relates to you and make you feel not alone. Not someone to love you unconditionally...he did that all on his own.”

Kurt’s heart swells, tears filling his eyes before his face clouds over.

“Then why...why did he cheat on me?”

Atropos smiles sadly.

“Kurt, when did you last _need_ Blaine? Or make him feel like you needed him? Blaine’s existence - whether he loves you or not - is based on your need. If he doesn’t feel it he becomes, well, less of who he is. Less ‘Blaine’...and he latched onto something else to try to feel real again, if for a moment.”

Kurt could scream. He could kick a chair like Finn and he could rage to the sky about the ridiculous unfairness of the world but instead he just takes calming breaths and asks his next question.

“So what did you three do when this happened to you?”

All three of them blink at him and he knows. He _knows_.

“This...this never happened before, did it?”

They all look uncomfortable for a moment and Kurt feels the color rise to his cheeks.

“You are...unprecedented.” Lachesis says, not looking at him. “And you have made things very complicated for us the past few years. Your anomaly is something we’ve never seen before and we didn’t know how it would resolve itself but that seems to be happening on its own, so-”

Kurt tenses, interjecting.

“How?”

Atropos sighs.

“He’s fading. Becoming...less, every time we check on him. One day he just, well, won’t be there. And no one will remember, which is why we needed to talk to you today, Kurt. Because you. YOU will. And we needed to know what you want to do.”

Kurt’s mind swims. Blaine...not exist? Blaine...not remembered and...

“So. Wait. If this happens, I’ll be the only one who remembers him?”

He tries to control his words, make his private thoughts his own, but he’s rambling now, shaken to the core.  
“Remembers loving him? His smile and his goodness and his laugh? How well he sings and how deeply he loves his friends? How hard he tries and what he looks like when we kiss...how...how he sounds when we make love? I’m the only one who...I...” Kurt grabs at his hair and it feels like _dying_ , this concept of no Blaine and being alone with the knowledge of his first love.

“What can I do?”

“To make it happen or to keep him here?” Clotho asks, her face and tone showing him she honestly doesn’t know the answer.

Kurt’s hands tighten into fists, his whole body tense, ready to spring.

“Why. Would. I. EVER. Want. Him. To. Disappear?” He measures his words out like punches, and he hopes they can feel them. Fates or not, mind-blowing knowledge or no, he never, EVER wants Blaine to cease to exist.

“Well,” Clotho says, voice strong and clear, “He _did_ hurt you.”

Kurt nods once. “Yes. He did. But that doesn’t...that doesn’t mean...”

He trails off, the realization sharp and almost painful.

“That doesn’t mean I want him gone. That...that doesn’t mean he shouldn’t exist and...” This part, this part is the hardest to say. “That doesn’t mean I don’t want him in my life somehow or some day.”

Atropos smiles, but it’s a sad, small thing.

“You are going to find our job so difficult, then, when the time comes.”

Kurt looks at the old woman with wonder. One day - some day - he will be this woman? How...?

“How does this work and I will be...?”

“Me,” Atropos replies, settling back into the seat, into her bones, “and that is a discussion for another time, one much closer to your time of changing. For now, though, you need to make a choice for Blaine.”

Kurt nods, spine steeled.

“If you wish him to remain a human, you must give some of yourself in return. A piece of your soul-”

“How do I even-”

“Don’t interrupt,” Clo chides.

Atropos gives him a look and continues.

“Tonight, in your sleep, you will have the chance. You will need to give something of yourself and mark him as yours, connect your souls, to make him human. From then on his reality - the one that wavers and fades - will become solid. He will be like everyone, for the most part, save one thing - a string, and that will be up to you some day, too.”

Kurt shoots her a questioning look, but she shakes her head and goes on.

“Tomorrow will be like a new day to him, having something to live for outside of you, and he may change. He may also stay the same, only time will tell. But he will be Blaine, real and solid, and that will be up to you. If you choose not to do anything - to leave him to his own, know that you are choosing to let him fade and go.”

Kurt nods, unable to speak, and begins to plan.

***

He takes great care in getting ready for bed that evening. He lays out one of his favorite white linen scarves and the pins from his sewing kit on his nightstand. He tucks himself into bed that night with more questions than answers, his eyelids drooping.

_He rouses to some soft sound, almost a whispering in his ear, threading through him quietly like early morning sun rays._

_He pulls back the covers and stretches and groans, languishing in the feel of smooth, perfect material against the balls of his feet, the spread of his shoulders as he bends. He’s bare-chested, his legs held close in pants of white linen - just like the scarf he had laid out - and he takes a moment to wonder what would’ve happened if he had chosen another one. He pulls free of the spun-cloud sheets and then the noise comes again, a quiet murmuring coming from the darkest corner of his room._

_He moves there on feather-light toes and sees a bundle, some small mound there, barely moving._

_A person._

_Kurt crouches low, crawling closer while the being flinches away, shuddering, a quicksilver cold around him that leeches through Kurt’s pants and pulls out prickled goose flesh on his arms. Kurt ignores the shivering air and reaches out to the boy, pulling him close and onto his lap._

_He’s dressed impeccably - smart sweater and chinos, boat shoes and gel all in place. He’s the picture of perfection except around his neck._

_Blaine’s wearing every tie he owns._

_His Dalton tie, his grandfather’s favorite tie, the tie his nana gave him when he turned nine. He’s wearing plaid ties and pink ties and cerulean blue and even a brown leather one sticking out from under the pile._

_As Kurt looks he realizes. Blaine’s literally strangling himself with ties._

_Kurt grabs at the first one - a red one, of course - and unties it, pulling slow and sure until it’s free and hits the ground._

_Blaine whimpers._

_“Shh, Blaine,” says Kurt, voice low and soothing even through the beating of his heart through his ribs, “I’m here.”_

_Blaine looks at him, into him, seeking and still whimpering, soft and pitiful. He waits a moment, clinging to Kurt before speaking._

_“I don’t know who I am, Kurt. Not if you’re not here. I just...how am I this person? Why can’t I do this? Why don’t I know who I am?”_

_He trails off and covers his face while Kurt deftly unties every last choking thing, methodically finding the right end and pulling. As he pulls the tears come, and he lets himself feel the pain of losing Blaine. The pain of being hurt and not understanding, of being ruined inside...the same pain he sees mirrored on Blaine’s face. He pulls, helping Blaine breathe, until few ties remain, hanging loose but still there, Dalton among them._

[](http://tinypic.com?ref=2uj4glj)

_He needs to make this right._

_“Blaine?” Kurt asks, tipping Blaine’s chin up. The cold surrounding them warms quickly, blooming into shimmering color. To Kurt, Blaine looks like a trapped bird, his face still wet, ties hanging limp and forgotten as the colors swirl and twist themselves into wings behind his back, weighted down with the force of Kurt’s aura. Kurt can clearly see his own now, hovering blithely over his skin, weaving and whirling, a myriad of colors in its wake._

_Blaine hangs on the sound of his name, his eyes boring into Kurt’s own._

_It’s time to set him free; let him live a life meant for_ Blaine _._

_“I’m going to help,” Kurt whispers. “Wait here.”_

_Kurt stands and turns, leaving Blaine wrapped in luscious purples, pinks, and blues, hoping they’ll last as he completes his task._

_His bed has disappeared. Instead there is just his nightstand, the box of pins clearly visible, a shiny silver basin, and clothes hanging on a hook attached to nothing._

_Kurt shakes his head, the other-ness of his dream a delicious mystery as he crosses the room to the little table. He uses it to steady himself as he carefully removes the linen pants. He dons the offered wardrobe quickly, and they fit perfectly, a second skin. He laces the boots and stands up from a kneel, his body looming over the shining silver basin and he sees, in the bottom, a needle and a black-handled pair of scissors. He lifts them out, considering them a moment, and then looks to the pants on the floor._

_He knows what must be done._

_A piece of himself, given freely to Blaine. A piece of himself to set Blaine free._

_He gets to work, cutting the seam of the pants and pulling them apart to make strips of material that fall onto the table. After some time he comes to the last, thinnest piece and drops it into the basin before setting down the scissors and taking up a pin from the box._

_He looks at his left hand for a few moments, considering, and then draws himself up to do the deed._

_He pricks his finger._

_First his pointer. Then the middle._

_All of them on his left hand and then his right, small, simple punctures that grumble at him as he wills the blood out into the basin and onto the thin, thin strip of linen there. He makes it rain blood, squeezing, wrenching life out one small drop at a time, a suitable mimic to the night barely two years before._

_The wounds drip freely for a bit and then stop. He looks in the basin and finds that the linen, while somewhat red, is still not done. He turns back to Blaine and sees him, crying silently and rocking, Kurt’s own aura fading around him the more time Kurt takes._

_Kurt’s face hardens, resolve clear._

_He takes up the scissors, a sudden calm enveloping his movements. He makes the blades a gaping mouth and then closes them again, wincing as they open the skin at his right wrist._

_The blood flows quickly now, and Kurt lets it before cutting once more at the skin of his left forearm, adding to the basin, reddening the linen to a perfect dark hue. His gift; life for a life._

_When it’s done, he takes a deep breath, the wounds shallow but sore, and wills the strips on the table to lift up high. His aura lifts them, steeped in color, his pinks and blues enveloping and wrapping tight around every part of cut flesh they can find, pushing blood and sinew back together again._

_And then it’s over, the bin shining, the red linen thread gleaming in the bottom, dry. He retrieves the needle, fingers steady and breath calm as he threads the linen through._

_“Blaine?”_

_Blaine turns, face confused but dry as Kurt beckons to him._

_“Come here, okay? I want to help you.”_

_Kurt puts on his most confident smile, his aura reaching out and beckoning, helping Blaine to stand and walk, to reach him and be pulled close, body against body._

_Kurt fights for control of himself, nerves and thoughts a jumbled fray as he talks to Blaine, soothing whispers as the world darkens around them again._

_“Come here, I need to-”_

_Blaine leans in and Kurt dips his head, dry lips on the soft soft skin where Blaine’s neck meets his shoulder. He can see the colors converge there, a riotous mass of fireworks where his mouth was, before seeming to sink into Blaine’s very flesh._

_“This shouldn’t hurt, okay?” Kurt says, hoping that what he’s just seen makes him right. He turns Blaine from him, fingers twisting the linen and knotting it, hand steady and ready to make the first mark. “Brace yourself.”_

_Blaine turns his head to look into Kurt’s eyes._

_“I trust you, Kurt. Always.”_

_He smiles sadly and turns away as Kurt's needle descends, puncturing his neck and moving slowly, carefully, in and out of Blaine’s body._

_There’s a glow to Blaine’s skin, soft, earthy moss green, then a deep space purple. It changes slowly at first, but quickens as Kurt works...puce, magenta, shimmering gold, on and on._

_Kurt finishes and it’s a opalescent white, hugging Blaine tightly as Kurt brings his scissors up to snip the thread._

_Kurt smiles._

_“I love you, Blaine Anderson.” He whispers as he cuts, severing their tie._

_And Blaine’s gone._

 

**The Lima Bean, March 2013**

“That’s good work.”

Atropos sips her earl grey, idly toying with the cinnamon tart in front of her, his shirt covered in sugary dust.

Clo looks to where Tropos is staring, the shining red letters that anyone - well, anyone otherworldly - could see the moment they stepped through the door.

Blaine is sitting across from Kurt, his eyes telling stories that even the deaf could hear, as Mike and Mercedes talk beside them. Kurt, for his part, isn’t looking. His focus the multitude of sugar packets in front of them.

“Dirty cute, what even IS that?” Lachesis says, clearly irritated that they’re even checking in so soon. “It’s time to go.”

Clo sighs. “You didn’t tell him how long, ‘Esis.”

They all look to Kurt, his aura turning twists with the pearlescent one across from him at the table, oblivious at the moment.

“It will happen soon enough. Come.”

They listen, each one winking away, Clo’s eyes locked on Blaine’s neck, the letters exclaiming for all to see.

_KH._


End file.
